


In Absentia

by MortalCity



Series: Vindicated [2]
Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: 11th precinct, Captain Gregson - Freeform, Case Fic, Detective Work, Friendship, Gen, Irregulars - Freeform, Kidnapping, Mason - Freeform, Mason is awesome, Ms. Hudson - Freeform, Ms. Hudson cleans things, Murder, Mystery, Partnership, Sherlock and Joan are missing, Stabbing, casefic, major cases, process of elimination, unlikely colleagues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-15
Updated: 2018-07-11
Packaged: 2019-05-23 14:44:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 15,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14936285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MortalCity/pseuds/MortalCity
Summary: Marcus Bell sends Joan Watson off with a slightly tipsy hug and a stern order: “Text me as soon as you get back to that nutty housemate of yours so I know you made it home safely.”----Someone was stabbed sixteen times in an elevator.  Sherlock and Joan are missing.  Marcus is on the case.  So is...Ms. Hudson?Whatever.  Life with Sherlock Holmes has never been what Marcus would call "boring."





	1. Day 0

**DAY 0**

 

Marcus Bell sends Joan Watson off with a slightly tipsy hug and a stern order: “Text me as soon as you get back to that nutty housemate of yours so I know you made it home safely.”

She responds with a warm smile. “Absolutely. Thanks again for the drink.”

“Thanks for solving the case,” he volleys meaningfully. “Thank Holmes for me, too. This one was…”

He doesn’t bother to finish the sentence. “Difficult” would be a gross understatement, but anything more accurate would be inappropriate for a New York City pub. Cases where the victims are children always take a significant mental and emotional toll.

Joan’s voice is as soft as her hand on his shoulder. “I know.”

She disappears into the night, and he disappears into his third tumbler of bourbon. By the time he finally stumbles home around 2:00 AM, he is far too gone to remember to check for Joan’s text.


	2. Day 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Want to hear something crazy?” Gregson prompts.
> 
> “This guy was stabbed sixteen times in the torso and left to bleed out on the floor of the building’s only elevator,” Marcus retorts dryly. “That’s not crazy enough for you?”
> 
> Gregson ignores the observation, holding up his mobile incredulously. “I can’t get ahold of Joan or Holmes.”

**DAY 1**

Marcus wakes to a message from Captain Gregson about a new case. They meet in the lobby of a tall, older apartment building in Brooklyn, where Marcus blinks bleary eyes at a dead body in an elevator over a cup of strong, black coffee.

“Want to hear something crazy?” Gregson prompts.

“This guy was stabbed sixteen times in the torso and left to bleed out on the floor of the building’s only elevator,” Marcus retorts dryly. “That’s not crazy enough for you?”

Gregson ignores the observation, holding up his mobile incredulously. “I can’t get ahold of Joan or Holmes.”

Even with a raging hangover, Marcus recognizes the first seeds of intuitive dread sowing in the pit of his stomach. “They might still be sleeping off the last one,” he replies carefully. “You know how Holmes gets.”

“Dead guy in an elevator,” Captain Gregson reiterates pointedly. “Stabbed sixteen times and left to bleed out on the floor. M.E. says he’s been dead for at least four hours, but no one called to report it. This is the building’s ONLY elevator. You don’t think Holmes would be all over this?”

“Joan was supposed to text me when she got back last night,” Marcus admits with a nervous glance at his cell phone’s muted screen. He scrolls through the text messages to no avail, and the seeds of dread grow ominous green shoots. “You think she just fell asleep and forgot?”

The captain dips his chin and arches his eyebrows, saying what Marcus already knows to be true. “Joan?” His lips curl doubtfully. “Joan doesn’t forget.”

Marcus winces. “I’ll stop by their place as soon as we finish up here.”

Hours later, he arrives at the brownstone, dragging his exhausted feet against the familiar steps. He rings the doorbell for ten minutes, rubbing his gloved hands together against the cold.

No one answers.

He decides that his friends are taking a much-needed sabbatical. The Miko Smith case was gruesome—two little boys and their mother strangled by a lamp cord and then dropped from the roof of the apartment into the dumpsters below. Holmes isn’t overtly emotional (unless, of course, his precious “Watson” is involved), but Marcus knows the cases with kids get to him.

He descends the concrete steps, sure that the unlikely pair of partners will be in touch as soon as they’ve recovered.


	3. Day 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Still no word from Holmes or Watson?” he asks breathlessly after the captain beckons him forward. 
> 
> “Nada,” Gregson affirms, gesturing toward one of the visitor’s chairs. Marcus perches precariously on the edge of its seat. 
> 
> “Look, I know it’s not really our place to pry, but…do you think it’s time we pull out their paperwork and start calling their emergency contacts, just to be on the safe side?”

**DAY 2**

“Woman just called in to report a missing person in the same building,” Captain Gregson tells him at the crack of dawn the next morning. “She’s on her way over to ID our vic. Says he matches the description of her brother.” 

“I’m coming in.” Marcus rubs tired eyes with tired fingers. “Hey, did you ever hear back from Holmes?” 

“Not yet. I was gonna call him as soon as I got off with you.” There’s a brief pause on the other end. “Why? What’d they say when you stopped by last night?” 

“They never came to the door.” 

In the silence that follows, Marcus’s budding dread becomes a full-fledged sapling. 

“Weird,” the captain finally mumbles. It feels like a grave understatement. “You think they’re working a case for a private client?” 

Marcus thinks something is _wrong_ , but he’s not quite ready to share those feelings with the captain.

“Maybe. I’ll try ‘em again on the way to the precinct.” 

He dials Joan Watson’s number before he even puts his feet on the floor. It goes straight to voicemail. He calls Holmes as he’s plodding into the bathroom to relieve himself. He gets the man’s terse, awkwardly recorded message immediately. 

_“Hello. You’ve reached Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective…”_

The vine of dread loops uncomfortably around his small intestine.

He sends them each the same text message— **JOHN DOE STABBED 16 TIMES IN ELEVATOR. COULD USE YOUR HELP.** —as he ducks into the nearest subway station. 

He stops by their brownstone and rings the bell again. No one answers. 

Uncertainty makes tiny mountains of his flesh beneath his wool coat. He has the strangest feeling that he’s being watched. 

He tells himself that this is the latest in Sherlock’s bizarre experiments, some new training tactic that Marcus doesn’t quite _get_ yet. But even as he abandons the stoop for the precinct, the gooseflesh remains.

  

* * *

  

When Marcus gets to the precinct, a lovely, exhausted-looking blonde woman named Alice Walker identifies the stabbing victim as her brother George. 

“I knew it,” she gasps, pressing a fist between her teeth to stifle her sobs. “I could just _feel_ that he was gone.” She turns tearful green eyes on him, her pale skin mottled with angry pink. “Is that weird?” 

“Not at all, Miss Walker,” he assures her politely. “People often report those kinds of connections with loved ones. I’m very sorry for your loss.” 

Dread knots his stomach while he begins the familiar but arduous process of contacting the rest of the victim’s family, developing a profile of the victim, and creating a list of potential suspects. Only when he’s throwing the last of the day’s paperwork into a thickening file does he realize that his phone has been abnormally silent all day. 

Holmes is an avid texter. Sometimes his messages are downright indecipherable, but he always texts back, and Joan is way too responsible to leave the captain hanging. 

Marcus raps on the door to the captain’s office.

“Still no word from Holmes or Watson?” he asks breathlessly after the captain beckons him forward. 

“Nada,” Gregson affirms, gesturing toward one of the visitor’s chairs. Marcus perches precariously on the edge of its seat. 

“Look, I know it’s not really our place to pry, but…do you think it’s time we pull out their paperwork and start calling their emergency contacts, just to be on the safe side?” 

“One step ahead of you.” The captain passes him a short stack of papers. 

He scans the files quickly, looking for the desired entry on Holmes’s form. 

**Emergency Contact:** _Joan Watson_

_Of course_ , Marcus thinks, and flips impatiently to Joan’s waiver. 

**Emergency Contact:** _Sherlock Holmes_

That one, he admits to himself, comes as more of an inconvenient surprise. 

“There’s got to be someone else we can call.” 

“I’ve got the number for Sherlock’s dad,” Gregson admits, “but the guy’s not exactly what I would call a sympathetic character.” 

Marcus wants to interject that Sherlock himself isn’t exactly a sympathetic character, but then he remembers the warmth and—dare he think it?— _respect_ with which Sherlock called him “Marcus” after they worked their first case alone together, and he reconsiders. 

“I’ll call the guy,” he offers. 

After a few clicks of his mouse, Captain Gregson scrawls the number on a Post-It and passes it over. “Be my guest,” he murmurs. “In the meantime, I’m gonna follow up with Sherlock’s friend who was kidnapped. Mister…” He trails off for a moment and sifts through a pile of papers before brandishing another file triumphantly. “Alfredo Llamosa.” 

“Joan has a brother,” Marcus offers. “Think it might be worth calling him?” 

“I think we should see what we can get from Sherlock’s people in town first.” He pauses for a moment. “And Marcus?” 

“Captain?” 

The captain’s brow furrows meaningfully. “Maybe you should stop by again tonight or tomorrow and see if anything weird’s going on at their place.”

  


	4. Day 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Where are Sherlock and Joan?”
> 
> “I was wondering the same thing,” she sniffs. “They’re usually here at this hour unless…” Her smooth alto trails off, and he watches as her Adam’s apple bobs uncomfortably. “I’m sorry. Who did you say you are?”
> 
> Marcus balances the cardboard quad on the railing and flashes his badge. “Detective Marcus Bell, NYPD. I work in Major Cases at the 11th Precinct.” He deliberately tucks his badge behind his firearm and meets her troubled gaze defiantly. “Who are you?”
> 
> “Ms. Hudson.” She offers a manicured hand. “Scholar of Ancient Greece and housekeeper extraordinaire.”

**DAY 3**

 

It’s just past seven in the morning when Marcus rings the bell at the brownstone, a cardboard quad of coffees in his hand. 

When no one comes to the door, he pounds his glove-covered fist against the wood. 

“Holmes!” he yells. “I got you a mocha and a murder! Let me in!” 

He jams his index finger into the doorbell a few more times for good measure. 

The door creaks open, and a tall blonde woman peers out suspiciously, her perfectly coiffed curls dusting the shoulder of her silk blouse. The small shaft of sunlight peeking through the winter clouds causes her strand of pearls to shimmer. 

He traces ample breasts to suspicious blue eyes and frowns. 

“Can I help you?” she asks, dabbing daintily at the wings of her eyeliner. 

“I should ask you the same question.” He narrows his eyes and tries desperately to peer over her shoulder. “Where are Sherlock and Joan?” 

“I was wondering the same thing,” she sniffs. “They’re usually here at this hour unless…” Her smooth alto trails off, and he watches as her Adam’s apple bobs uncomfortably. “I’m sorry. Who did you say you are?” 

Marcus balances the cardboard quad on the railing and flashes his badge. “Detective Marcus Bell, NYPD. I work in Major Cases at the 11th Precinct.” He deliberately tucks his badge behind his firearm and meets her troubled gaze defiantly. “Who are you?” 

“Ms. Hudson.” She offers a manicured hand. “Scholar of Ancient Greece and housekeeper extraordinaire.” 

Marcus arches a doubtful eyebrow. 

(He’s never seen a housekeeper who cleans in pearls. He’s also pretty sure he’s never seen the brownstone clean. The last time Joan offered him coffee, she had to move three jars of mold colonies to get to the milk. He’s taken his coffee black ever since, just to be safe.) 

“Sherlock and I are old friends,” she confesses with a sad, shy smile. “He lets me clean because Joan likes order, and he likes Joan. Besides, I understand his organizational system.” 

The incredulous snort escapes before Marcus can think to hold it back. “Holmes has an organizational system?” 

“He orders his living space the way he orders his mind,” she offers, opening the door a bit wider. “Like an attic. It’s really quite fascinating; you should ask him about it sometime.” 

“I try not to ask Sherlock to explain much of anything,” Marcus admits, allowing his gaze to cover every inch of the foyer. “Dude doesn’t need any more reminders of how smart he is.” 

Their coats and keys are missing, but nothing else seems out of place. In fact, the brownstone looks atypically uncluttered. Marcus turns to Ms. Hudson with grudging respect. 

“How long have you been here?” 

“Barely ten minutes,” Ms. Hudson explains, sounding somewhat contrite. “I usually come on Tuesdays, but I had a tiff with my boyfriend, and clearing a space helps me to clear my head. Sherlock and Joan don’t usually mind if I come early.” 

Marcus spins in a slow circle, taking in the paperless floor, the rusty rows of locks, and the lack of files spread across the desks. “So you didn’t do _any_ of this?” 

“I came in through Joan’s office downstairs, heard you knocking, and came up to see who was at the door.” 

Marcus watches as Ms. Hudson surveys the scene with growing incredulity. 

“Joan cleans sometimes, when she’s feeling particularly stressed,” the tall woman murmurs. “Maybe she’s been…” 

“She and Sherlock have been out of touch for three days,” Marcus interrupts, laying a hand on his stomach as the vine of dread grows roots and a trunk. “Something’s wrong.” 

“Maybe they took a case out of town,” she says, but her voice wavers tellingly. 

Marcus’s gut says otherwise.

  

* * *

 

Marcus is in the midst of poring through Joan’s most recent case files when he hears the telltale click of heels on the basement steps. 

“You were right, Detective Bell,” Ms. Hudson laments in a teary alto. “Something’s definitely wrong.” 

They meet at the base of the staircase, where Ms. Hudson hands him a folded sheet of printer paper. 

 

**_To whomever finds this missive:_ ** ****

**_Sincerest apologies for the lack of communication, but we have decided to take an extended leave of absence._ **

**_Our most recent case was a sobering reminder that life is short and sometimes rather morbid. And, while we still experience and enjoy the thrill of the chase, it does not negate the inevitable depression that follows when adrenaline wanes and we must confront the reality of young lives lost._ ** ****

**_We are forever grateful to the NYPD for the opportunity to help protect these streets, but we’re looking forward to a well-deserved vacation and new adventures._ **

**_S. Holmes & J. Watson_ **

 

“Sherlock didn’t write this,” Marcus insists, shaking his head. “No way he’d take a leave of absence.” 

“Or use an idiom like ‘thrill of the chase,’” Ms. Hudson agrees. “And none of this sounds like Joan.” 

Marcus snorts derisively, trying to ignore the fear that is quickly tangling his internal organs. Yesterday’s vine of dread feels like a redwood, taking up uncomfortable amounts of space in his esophagus. “I wasn’t even aware those two knew the word ‘vacation.’” 

“It’s typed to avoid questions about handwriting, but that’s not how they sign their names” Ms. Hudson offers. For the first time, Marcus notices that she’s wearing latex gloves. “Someone left this hoping to mislead us.” 

“Someone?” Marcus repeats doubtfully with a pointed glance at her hands. 

“Not me!” Ms. Hudson exclaims in offense. “This is evidence, Detective! I was led to believe you could dust these sorts of things for fingerprints!” 

“And you just _happened_ to have a pair of crime scene gloves?” 

“These are _cleaning_ gloves,” Ms. Hudson retorts. “I’m their _housekeeper_.” 

They face off for a moment, chests heaving, before Ms. Hudson schools her features into something patronizingly neutral. 

“Look,” she says gently. “You don’t know me, and I don’t know you, but I _do_ know Sherlock. I lent my expertise for a few of his cases with Scotland Yard, and he still trusts me with tasks like researching the presence of nutmeg at crime scenes. He’s also trusted me enough to mention you.” She dips her chin pointedly. “If he bothered to not only learn your name, but become familiar enough to call you by your _first_ name, you must be good at your job. I don’t want you to waste those skills investigating _me_ when you could be using them to find our friends.” She reaches over and snatches a pair of keys from Joan’s desk. Her heels tap a determined beat across the floor as she retrieves her coat. 

“Where are you going?” Marcus asks suspiciously, reaching for his gun. 

“To the precinct, with you,” she replies, brows perfectly and pointedly arched. “I have a missing persons report to file, and we have an investigation to conduct. If Joan and Sherlock have been taken, we don’t have a minute to waste.” She turns her palms to the ceiling and presents her wrists. Her Rolex catches the light conspicuously.           

“Nice watch for a housekeeper,” Marcus remarks. 

She smiles demurely. “I’m not _just_ a housekeeper, Detective Bell. I’m also a muse.” 

He’s sure his skepticism is written plainly across his exhausted features. 

“You don’t trust me,” she sighs. “I understand. You can cuff me for the drive over, if you’d like.” 

He rolls his eyes and tugs his car keys from his coat pocket. “Just…come on.”

  

* * *

  

“It’s not a missing persons case.” 

Marcus stares at the captain incredulously. “They’ve been gone for three days! Their place is _clean,_ and every call goes straight to voicemail! Of course it’s a missing persons case!” 

Captain Gregson leans forward in his chair and waves the note pointedly in the air. “They left a note that directly addresses their absence,” he counters. “It’s not a missing persons case.” 

Marcus scoffs audibly. “Come on, Captain,” he pleads. “We both know Sherlock and Joan didn’t write that note. Hell, even the _housekeeper_ knows they didn’t write it.” 

Gregson arches a leveling eyebrow. “Normally, you’d be questioning the housekeeper. Isn’t she a suspect?” 

“I thought it wasn’t a missing persons case.” Marcus folds his arms defiantly. “No case, no suspects.” 

Gregson lays his hands flat on the desk. “You can report ‘em as missing,” he amends, “but you know the rules as well as I do. Sherlock and Joan are healthy, over 18, and under 65, which excludes them from special categories that demand police attention. The most we can do is file the paperwork—and even then, we can’t prove that the disappearance was involuntary. Whether they wrote it or not, that note makes a claim of involuntary disappearance damn near impossible. There’s no way I’d get clearance to allocate time or resources to this.” 

“But we’ve already lost crucial time,” Marcus argues. “You know the stats, Captain. After the first 24 hours…” 

“That note tells us that they’re not being held for ransom,” Gregson points out. 

“Then there’s no reason for their abductors to keep them alive,” Marcus volleys. “Either way, we can’t afford to lose anymore time. We have to start looking into this _now_.” 

“The commissioner’s not going to let me do that.” 

“Why the hell not?” Marcus retorts. “The whole department was just recognized for excellence—due largely to the contributions of Sherlock and Joan!” He pauses for a moment. “Although, if you ever tell Holmes I said that…” 

“It doesn’t matter,” Gregson sighs. “They’re not special category cases, Detective. My hands are tied.” 

Marcus inhales sharply. “That’s bullshit, Captain. We owe them better than that.”

Gregson leans back expectantly. “You know what, Detective? Maybe you should take the rest of the day off.” 

Marcus’s stomach seizes in protest. Suddenly, he feels sick. “No.” 

“I don’t know,” Gregson demures. “I think it might be a good idea to take a breather. I can send someone else to talk to the people on Alice Walker’s suspect list and brief you in the morning. George Walker’s already dead, and it doesn’t look like the work of a serial killer. A day off won’t kill the investigation.” 

Marcus winces. “I’m sorry, Captain. I’m not trying to be disrespectful; I’m just worried, you know? They’re not just our colleagues; they’re friends. I feel like we owe them the best we have to offer. Hell, we should be putting _all_ of our resources behind this.”

“We should,” the captain agrees, eyes widening emphatically. 

“I can’t go home and just sit around and _wait_ for something else to happen. I’m better off here.” 

Gregson rolls his eyes. “I didn’t say you had to go home. I’m saying you should take the day for yourself.” 

“While our friends are out there somewhere?!” 

“Marcus,” Gregson enunciates pointedly. “Look at me.” 

Marcus inhales slowly, trying to ignore the forest of dread in his gut and the way its branches are stabbing his abdominal wall. 

“Take. The. Day,” Gregson repeats. “I can’t allocate resources, but I can allocate PTO, and you’re a damn fine detective.” 

Marcus dips his chin hopefully, fearfully. “You’re telling me to look into this.” 

“I’m not _telling_ you anything,” Gregson counters. “That would be unethical. _But_ if you were to use _your_ day off to examine the disappearance of your friends using the resources your position at the NYPD has made available to you…”

Marcus feels his eyes roll back in his head as he breathes a sigh of relief. “Thank you.” 

“Don’t thank me,” Gregson retorts. “Thank yourself. I’ve never seen a detective with so much unused vacation time.” 

Marcus is halfway to the door before Gregson calls him again. 

“Marcus?” 

“Sir?” 

When he turns around, the captain’s blue eyes are wide and bright. “Bring ‘em home.” 

Marcus dips his chin in acknowledgement of the weight behind the captain’s request. “Yes sir.” Then, he closes the captain’s door and directs his attention to the tall blonde perched primly on the edge of his desk. 

“You said you’ve helped Sherlock and Joan before,” he begins hesitantly. 

“I have,” she agrees, equally apprehensive. 

“How do you do with research?”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Ms. Hudson compiles a list of every single entity that might want to harm Sherlock Holmes. It’s not a short list, but they go through it name by name. Marcus even calls to check up on Jamie Moriarty, just in case. 

“Nothing to report, Detective,” the warden informs him solemnly. “She hasn’t even gotten mail in the last week and a half.” 

Marcus heaves a sigh and shakes his head sadly in response to Ms. Hudson’s eager expression. “Thanks, Warden. Please call me if anything changes.” He rattles off his personal cell number, just in case. 

“You got it, sir.” 

“I’m not ruling her out,” Marcus tells Ms. Hudson after hanging up. “She’s sneaky. It wouldn’t surprise me if she’s engineered this somehow—mail or no mail.” 

“I keep coming back to the note,” Ms. Hudson admits. “Why leave a note? Why risk being caught by an errant fingerprint or a specific type of ink?” 

“To nullify the involuntary clause of the missing persons report,” Marcus explains. “If there’s any indication that they left of their own volition, it makes it harder for us to justify looking for them.” 

“It seems a bit elaborate for a one-off kidnapping,” she persists doubtfully. “All those sentences, the careful diction, the thoughtful weaving of a plausible ruse…” 

Marcus leans back in the desk chair and strokes his chin. “Is it really that plausible, though? How many people do you know that just up and leave their jobs for a permanent vacation?” He snorts derisively. “It’s like that old Fastball song from the nineties…” 

Ms. Hudson leans forward eagerly. “What song?” 

“You know,” Marcus prompts, “the one about the couple who just…started packing and left one day? ‘Where were they going without ever knowing the way?’” 

Ms. Hudson begins typing quickly and gracefully at the laptop in front of her. Shortly thereafter, distorted guitars and percussive piano chords emanate from the tiny laptop speakers. 

“This song is actually kinda creepy when you think about it,” Marcus remarks as the major key of the chorus cedes airtime to the verse in minor. 

“It’s based on a [true story](http://www.signature-reads.com/2014/04/memoir-in-a-melody-the-tragic-disappearance-behind-fastballs-the-way/).” Ms. Hudson sounds somewhat triumphant. “Apparently, Lela and Raymond Howard from Salgado, Texas went missing after announcing a vacation to Temple.” 

“You think they were kidnapped?” 

“No,” Ms. Hudson confesses. “Journalism seems to indicate that they were an elderly couple suffering from dementia. Eventually, they drove their car right off a cliff.” 

He feels the sudden urge to call his grandparents. 

“Besides,” Ms. Hudson sighs, “there wasn’t a note in the Howards’ case—just an eerie, half-packed suitcase and a few neighbors who said the couple were heading out.” 

“So no real connection to what happened with Sherlock and Joan,” Marcus clarifies. 

Ms. Hudson gives her blonde waves a sad shake. 

“That letter is signed by both of them, though,” she points out. “If someone took Sherlock and Joan, that someone intended to take both of them. This may not be the unfortunate result of a vendetta against Sherlock.” 

“You think we should start looking into Joan’s past?” 

Ms. Hudson shrugs. “I think it couldn’t hurt.” 

Eventually, Marcus falls asleep on his laptop in the midst of a Google search for one of Dr. Joan Watson’s former patients. When he wakes up a few hours later, Ms. Hudson has created another list of potential culprits. 

He congratulates her on a search well done. He doesn’t mention the fact that she has also cleaned his apartment.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. "The Way" is a really fantastic song by Fastball. You can check it out [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=b0wfu3tOrtQ). It really is based on a true story about a couple with dementia who disappeared; you can read the full article in the link above. I'll be here all week with absolutely useless musical trivia. 
> 
> 2\. The details about missing persons cases are true according to the NYPD and Missing Persons Report websites. If you know someone who is missing, you can report them through either of those sites.


	5. Day 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marcus’s features contort in disgust. “It’s the same damn letter.” 
> 
> “Not quite,” Ms. Hudson corrects gently, “but it’s certainly close enough.”

**DAY 4**

“Hello?” 

The female voice comes as a surprise; _must be a secretary._ “Hi,” Marcus offers with what he hopes is polite professionalism. “I’m calling for Morland Holmes.” 

“I’m afraid Mr. Holmes is busy at the moment. May I take a message?” 

“It’s kind of urgent,” Marcus replies pointedly. “I’m happy to hold.” 

He can hear every bit of Sherlock’s posh upbringing in the secretary’s disgustingly saccharine tone. 

“Mr. Holmes is a very busy man. Perhaps it’d be best if I passed your words along.” 

Marcus heaves a sigh. When he speaks again, his tone is grave and gravelly. “I’m calling about his son, Sherlock.” His intention isn’t to create unnecessary panic, but he feels forced to show his hand. “I think he may be in trouble.” 

Her pause is miniscule. “I’m sorry; what did you say your name was?” 

“Detective Marcus Bell. I’m with the NYPD’s Major Cases unit,” he offers. “Sherlock and his partner Joan Watson consult on cases with us.” 

“Thank you, Detective. I’ll pass along your message.” 

“Wait!” Marcus interrupts. “Sherlock and Joan _usually_ consult with us, but they’ve been unresponsive over the past few days. Their phones go straight to voicemail, and their place is suspiciously clean. We think they may be missing.” 

Her chipper British clip betrays no sign of concern. “Thank you for the information. I’ll let Mr. Holmes know you called.” 

“But…Sherlock could’ve been abducted,” Marcus frowns. “Don’t you want my number so Mr. Holmes can call me back?” 

“That won’t be necessary,” she replies. “Cheers.” 

He hears the click that indicates the end of a call and stares incredulously as his mobile screen returns to neutral.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The captain calls at noon to tell him that every single one of the suspects on Alice Walker’s list has an airtight alibi. 

“I need you to go back to the apartment building,” Gregson explains. “Talk to the neighbors; see if they heard anything. Because it’s an older building, there’s no security camera in the elevator. The only footage we could possibly review comes from the front door, and they’re dragging their feet in getting us the tapes.” The captain hums thoughtfully. “Maybe you can put some pressure on them while you’re there. See if you can’t hurry ‘em up.” 

He interviews four of the building’s residents. One of them claims to have been asleep during the estimated time of death. Another relays a quite detailed account of his drug-filled night at a local club, but admits that he wasn’t home at all during the evening in question. The third seems hell-bent on completing an interrogation of her own. 

“Are you sure this young man was killed here, in this building?” she asks skeptically, peering at him from behind her bifocals. “What makes you so sure?” 

“The distribution of blood in the elevator and the evidence gathered by our forensics team,” Marcus replies warily. 

She snorts in derision. “It’s a fair question, you know. On those police shows, the cops are always missing something obvious.” 

He finally escapes with her alibi—she was baking cookies with her grandson in Soho—and knocks on the door of the apartment directly beneath Alice Walker’s. 

A tall, lanky man answers the door. Moments later, a petite blonde woman with sapphire eyes peers around his shoulder. 

“This is about that body in the elevator, isn’t it?” 

Marcus offers what he hopes is a polite smile. “I’d just like to ask you folks a few questions.” 

The couple opens their door a bit wider, and Marcus realizes that the young woman is pregnant. 

“I’m due any day now,” she explains as they settle on couches in the living room. “I’d like to say that’s the reason I’m as big as a house, but I’ve been this big since my sixth month of pregnancy. Tiny women aren’t built to carry babies.” 

The lanky man—her husband, Marcus guesses from their matching rings—sits down beside her and presses a kiss to her temple. “Don’t listen to her,” he tells Marcus with a mischievous gleam in his eye. “She’s been incredible this whole time. Not once has she sent me out for pickles at three in the morning.” 

Marcus leans forward and plants his elbows on his knees. “Did either of you know George Walker?” 

The woman, who had introduced herself as Annie, furrows her brow. “Walker…why does that name sound familiar?” 

“We get their mail sometimes,” the man admits. “It’s usually addressed to Alice, though. They live upstairs, right?” 

“Directly above you,” Marcus affirms. 

Annie shakes her head incredulously. “Can’t say I’m surprised.” 

Her husband’s eyes widen in agreement. “They’re…loud. The couple upstairs, I mean. They fight a lot, knock stuff around. They’ve got a kid, too. Sometimes, we can hear the kid crying, and it’s just…not good, you know?” 

Annie leans back into her husband’s embrace. “When we first moved in here, the two of us were… _adjusting_ to married life, I guess you’d say. We’d have these stupid little tiffs and hold these stupid little grudges. But then, we heard the couple upstairs having it out one night, and we just…stopped. We sat down the next morning and swore to talk everything out like adults so we’d never do that to each other.” She chuckles ruefully. “Chad and I used to joke that God put us in this apartment so we’d never have marital problems again.” 

“It might’ve been self-defense,” Chad offers tentatively. “I mean…they were both pretty vocal, but things always got physical pretty quickly. The kinds of sounds we heard…those don’t happen unless someone’s throwing something pretty heavy or straight-up breaking glass.” 

“So you think the murder was the result of a domestic dispute?” Marcus clarifies. 

Annie inhales sharply. “If someone treated me like that—night after night, in front of my child—I’d be pretty tempted to kill ‘em. And I consider myself to be a pretty level-headed individual, pregnancy hormones aside.” 

Chad rolls his eyes good-naturedly. “Baby…you don’t have crazy hormones. You’ve been the model pregnant woman.” 

Marcus admits reluctantly to himself that, while the couple before him is nauseatingly in love, they don’t seem like the type to murder anyone. “Thanks for your help. I’ll be in touch if I have more questions for you.” 

“Wait!” Annie exclaims as he presses himself into a standing position. “Is the kid okay? We haven’t heard any crying in a few days, but I figured it was because the wife had finally kicked the guy out. If he was the one they found in the elevator…” She trails off and shudders visibly. “You should go up and check on the kid,” she says finally, her voice little more than a whisper. 

 

* * *

 

Marcus finds himself in front of Alice Walker’s apartment, knuckles striking the hunter green paint. It’s peeling in the corners, flaking off like sunburned skin and fluttering to the floor. 

She answers the door hesitantly at first, peering out through a crack. When she recognizes him, she opens the door more widely until the dim light of the hallways illuminates the purple thumbprints under her eyes. “Detective Bell! Come in.” 

He follows her inside, studying the mismatched furniture and the smattering of toys with a keen eye. He tries to see what Sherlock would see. _Barbie dolls, so the kid’s probably a girl. Circle on the table with less dust than the rest of the table’s surface, which means there might’ve been a vase or a lamp something that got broken._

“Did you figure out who killed my brother?” 

Alice Walker looks frail, perched on the torn corduroy couch in the center of the living room. He notes the way she worries a stained stuffed elephant with her fingers. 

“You have a daughter,” he says without preamble. 

Her sallow cheeks crack a worn smile. “Yeah,” she affirms with a hollow chuckle. “Sorry it’s such a mess in here. She’s still working on that whole ‘pick up your toys’ thing.” 

The corners of his lips curl ever so slightly in acknowledgment. “How old is she?” 

“Four and a half.” Another broken laugh escapes. “She’d tell you she’s almost five, though.” 

“What’s her name?” 

“Mila,” and the word is like dawn on her face. “Mila Grace.” 

He takes a tentative seat on the edge of a poorly upholstered armchair. “Where is she now?” he asks gently. “Daycare?” 

Alice’s shoulders hunch forward, and her gaze drops to the matted elephant, which she kneads with both hands. “No. She’s actually, um…” She tilts her chin to the side, and her lips quirk in a more sinister smile. “She’s with my ex, actually. We’re…not together anymore.” 

He glances to his left, into the flat’s only bathroom, and sees a man’s shaving kit on the counter. “So the man staying with you now is…a new boyfriend?” 

Her brow creases in confusion. “No one’s staying with me. Just Mila.” 

He gestures to the pair of large hiking boots by the door. “Those look like men’s boots, and there’s a shaving kit in the bathroom.” 

Her eyes widen in surprise. “Oh. Right. Those…” She trails off and follows his gaze around the room, seemingly cataloging all the evidence of a man’s presence in the apartment. “That’s George’s stuff,” she admits in a low voice. “He was staying with us to help with the transition.” 

“The transition…” Marcus prompts expectantly. 

“The breakup,” Alice amends, chin ducked in shame. She rolled her eyes and ran a nervous hand through her limp blonde hair. “George was afraid that, if he left me alone, I’d go back to my ex. Stupid, really, but…” 

Marcus can feel the wheels creaking to life upstairs, the abrasive buzzing of an illuminated bulb. “Did you argue with him about it?” 

“All the time.” She shakes her head incredulously. “He was always _so_ insistent that he knew best…” 

She keeps talking, but Marcus only hears Annie’s words as he surveys the scene once more. 

 _“If someone treated me like that, night after night, in front of my child, I’d be pretty tempted to kill ‘em. And I consider myself to be a pretty level-headed individual.”_  

He wonders idly if this is what Sherlock feels like when the pieces of a deduction finally click into place. 

“Miss Walker, where were you the night your brother was killed?” 

 

* * *

 

“Thanks for your help. I’ll let you know if we have any other questions.” 

Marcus drops the phone unceremoniously into its cradle and presses his aching forehead into his palms. 

“Any luck?” 

He heaves a sigh and turns to face the captain. “Her alibi checks out; she was working a shift at the bar on the night her brother was killed. But her manager said she stepped out to take a personal call halfway through her shift and seemed agitated when she came back.” 

The captain takes a seat on the edge of Marcus’s desk and nods thoughtfully. “You think she was gone long enough to commit murder?” 

“No,” Marcus confesses, “but she was definitely gone long enough to conspire with someone to commit murder. And if he was as abusive as the neighbors say…” 

Gregson scratches his temple with tired hands, his gaze focused on the interrogation room where Alice Walker is waiting. “What I don’t get,” he begins in his gruff, halting tone, “is where the kid was during all of this. Didn’t she say her brother was home with the kid while she was working?” 

“That’s the story,” Marcus agrees, “but it doesn’t account for the daughter’s whereabouts after the murder. According to her manager, she came back into work after taking her personal call—but she didn’t come back with a kid.” 

“Did you ask her where she retrieved her daughter after work that night?” 

“I did.” Marcus scrubs his chin with a clumsy palm. “That’s when she asked for a lawyer.” 

“No way a mother kills someone and then leaves her child unattended—or, worse, with a stranger,” Gregson insists, his leg swinging nervously against the desk. “The kid’s with the dad now, right? Where was the dad during all of this?” 

“Beats me.” Marcus exhales with a _whoosh_. “Manager didn’t know his name, and Alice Walker refuses to say anything else without legal representation.” 

“’Course she does.” Gregson rolls his eyes and pushes himself into a standing position. “We know the kid’s name, right? Maybe we can find the father via birth certificate.” 

Marcus nods. “I’ll check the public records.” 

“You’re gonna have to wait ‘til tomorrow,” Gregson cautions. “The State Department of Health is closed for the night.” 

Marcus presses flat palms into the desk’s faux wood surface and stands. “If that’s true, I’m heading home. I’ve got another case to work on.”

 

* * *

 

 

“Oh, good! You’re back!” 

Marcus glances up from the keyhole and surveys his pristine apartment with wide, confused eyes. The floor is spotless; the kitchen sparkles. Ms. Hudson is sitting primly on his couch amidst stacks of documents arranged in perfect rows along his coffee table. The laptop casts an eerie blue glow on her face, tracing the long column of her neck and the swell of her ample chest beneath a familiar silk blouse as she stands. 

“Looks like you never left.” 

She smiles sheepishly. “I’m sort of in between housing situations at the moment—boyfriend troubles and all.” Crimson creeps along the hollows of her cheeks. “Normally, I’d stay with Sherlock and Joan, but…” 

Uncertainty settles uncomfortably into the sudden silence. 

“How was your day?” Ms. Hudson inquires politely. 

“I’m worried our next of kin might be our killer,” Marcus admits, opening the fridge and grabbing a bottle of Shiner. “Beer?” 

She heaves a sigh of relief. “Please.” 

He pries the caps off of both bottles and carries them over to the couch. “So,” he begins, studying the stacks of paper warily and taking a generous swig, “what’s all this?” 

“Our new investigative angle.” Ms. Hudson glances down at her arrangement with a broad smile. “I did some thinking after you left this morning. Joan’s wonderful, you know? She’s warm and funny and kind, and she’s already been contacted by the family of the patient she lost. The idea that anyone else would have a vendetta against her just…didn’t make sense.” 

Marcus takes a seat on the sofa, resting his elbows on his knees. “So you went back to our theory that they were taken by someone who had an axe to grind with Sherlock?” 

“Not exactly,” Ms. Hudson counters. “The letter was still bothering me, so I decided to look at it from a linguistic perspective.” 

Marcus arches a skeptical eyebrow and admits that his doubts about the woman’s connections to Sherlock are beginning to wane. “Explain.” 

She leans down and retrieves one of the smaller piles, passing it to Marcus. He recognizes the letter from the brownstone, boasting prophetic stripes of bright yellow highlighter. 

“We’ve been treating the letter like it’s personal, but it’s not. Despite the details that seem specific to them, we both agreed that they obviously didn’t write the letter. The rhetoric is a gross approximation of the way Sherlock speaks, and it certainly doesn’t sound like something Joan would write. Someone who knew them would’ve done a better job, which means…” 

“Whoever wrote the letter didn’t really know ‘em all that well,” Marcus finishes knowingly. 

“Exactly.” Her smile is tearstained and tentative. “Anyway, Sherlock always says that a failed attempt at mimicry reveals more about the aper than the aped. So I took the note we found and started entering the phrases that felt like stock phrases into Google.” The corners of her rose-colored lips reach ever so slightly upward. “Two phrases had direct matches.” She retrieves another stack of papers, unmasking a square foot of mahogany. The article on top reads: _Elopement Marks New Life for Longtime Couple._ “It seems a version of our letter’s been written before.” 

Marcus skims the article, stopping appreciatively on the highlighted names in the first paragraph. “Christina Jacks and Allen Paul?” 

“They disappeared,” Ms. Hudson explains, reaching over to point out the story’s most important bits. “The newspaper paints it as a rather romantic story. Apparently, Christine and Allen were madly in love. Despite their successful careers, they were practically inseparable. They’d been together for almost nine years in a little house in Poughkeepsie when friends noticed they were missing. Allen’s sister went to their place to explore and found nothing but a note. Flip the page.” 

Marcus does as requested. The familiar font leaves a painful stain on his retinas.

 

**_To our dear friends and family:_ ** ****

**_We’re so sorry to make our announcement this way, but we have decided to take an extended leave of absence._ ** ****

**_Our time at the hospital has been a sobering reminder that life is short and sometimes rather morbid. And, while we still feel called to practice medicine and help people heal, we feel that we are spending too much time working and not enough time enjoying each other._ ** ****

**_We are forever grateful for your support of our work and our engagement, but we’re looking forward to a well-deserved vacation and new adventures._ ** ****

**_With love,_ **

**_A. Paul & C. Jacks_ **

 

Marcus’s features contort in disgust. “It’s the same damn letter.” 

“Not quite,” Ms. Hudson corrects gently, “but it’s certainly close enough.” 

“Same font,” Marcus argues, marking the similarities by tugging on his right knuckles with his left index finger. “Same spacing, same sign-off. That can’t be a coincidence.” 

“I don’t think it is,” Ms. Hudson murmurs. “Neither did Christina’s sister.” She flips to the next page in the packet, where she has printed a series of messages from a thread titled “Need Information About Missing/Kidnapped Couples.” Marcus recognizes the Reddit logo in the upper lefthand corner of the page. 

“While most of the people cited in that article believe that the couple left to prioritize love over their respected professional lives, Christina’s younger sister, Sarah, didn’t buy the ruse,” Ms. Hudson continues. “According to her, Allen and Christina were well-respected surgeons whose relationship was, by all accounts, rather private. She says they took great pride in their work, and she can’t see a set of circumstances in which they sacrifice that pride for a life off the grid. She’s been searching hospital records since they disappeared four years ago, and she hasn’t been able to find anything that indicates that the couple resurfaced at another institution.” She reaches up a delicate hand to swipe a tear that slips past her lashes. “She thinks Allen and Christina are being held against their will. All these stories in the news about people who’ve escaped after years of captivity…she says they give her hope.” 

Marcus shakes his head incredulously. “That’s…” 

“Heartbreaking, right?” 

Marcus’s lips quirk sympathetically. “I was going to say unlikely,” he admits, “but…this is good work. If we can find a connection between these two and Sherlock and Joan, maybe we can find out who took them.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. This US administration is despicable, and what is happening at the borders makes me beyond heartsick. I know this place is about fiction and not politics, but I feel like we're living in a time when we HAVE to speak out against atrocities like this in whatever way we can.
> 
> 2\. Reddit is the black hole of spare time. You can literally find ANYTHING on Reddit. If you're not familiar, start with the Ask Me Anything (AMA) threads. The ones by the Jonas Brothers are particularly enlightening.
> 
> 3\. There are tons of statistics online about abduction. In the United States, the government does not statistically differentiate between child abductions and adult abductions--everyone is labeled a missing person. HOWEVER, the police are more likely to act on missing persons reports when the victim is under 18, over 65, or bearing a record of mental instability. In 2016, over 600,000 people were reported missing. In most instances, the first 24 hours are considered critical. 
> 
> 4\. We still don't know where Joan and Sherlock are or why they're there, but DON'T WORRY, Y'ALL...Ms. Hudson is ON it!
> 
> 5\. Your comments and kudos are giving me life. Thank you.


	6. Day 5, Part I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “We may have a lead.” Marcus catches a glimpse of Ms. Hudson’s blonde curls as she navigates his tiny kitchen. “I’m not sure it’s good news, but…” 
> 
> “Hey,” Gregson interjects, “something is always better than nothing.”

**DAY 5**

**(Part I)**

“Alice Walker wants to make a full confession.” 

Marcus squints incredulously into the first threads of sunlight weaving through the blinds. “What?” 

“Exactly,” Captain Gregson grumbles. “For some reason, she’s changing her story. Says she’ll provide a full confession as long as we leave her ex and her daughter out of it.” 

Marcus sits up and pinches the crust from the corners of his eyes. His entire apartment smells like bacon. It’s not unpleasant. “But…we don’t even know who the guy is yet.” 

“Actually, we do. Guy’s name is Axel Munger,” the captain confesses. “I called in a favor after you left last night and got his name from the State Department of Health.” 

Marcus paws at his tired face with a lazy palm. “You could’ve told me you had a resource. I would’ve stopped over there before heading out for the night." 

“I _could’ve_ ,” Gregson retorts, “but you’ve got a case of your own to deal with.” He pauses. “How’s that going, by the way?” 

“We may have a lead.” Marcus catches a glimpse of Ms. Hudson’s blonde curls as she navigates his tiny kitchen. “I’m not sure it’s good news, but…” 

“Hey,” Gregson interjects, “something is always better than nothing.” 

Marcus arches a skeptical eyebrow. “You think that’s what someone told Alice Walker?” 

“I think that someone’s lying to us,” the captain concludes firmly. “Whether it’s Alice Walker or her manager, I don’t know, but something about this whole thing doesn’t add up.” 

Marcus heaves a sigh of surrender. “I’m on my way.” He puts both feet on the floor and blinks in surprise when a plate full of eggs, bacon, and what appear to be homemade biscuits slides into his field of vision, its bottom scraping along the surface of the coffee table. 

When he glances up, Ms. Hudson offers him a sheepish smile around a forkful of scrambled eggs. 

“I couldn’t sleep,” she admits, “so I thought I’d make myself useful. Breakfast?” 

“I’ve actually got to head to the precinct,” Marcus laments. 

Ms. Hudson immediately begins slicing the biscuits for breakfast sandwiches. “New development in your case?” 

Marcus nods and pushes himself into a standing position. “Next of kin made an about-face and wants to confess to the murder.” He disappears into his bedroom for a quick shave and a change of clothing. He notices that Ms. Hudson has made the bed. 

(He let her have it for the night, but he’s not entirely sure that she slept.) 

“I thought the next of kin was the murderer?” 

He adjusts his tie and gratefully accepts the bagged breakfast she thrusts toward him. “She wouldn’t confess last night, and her alibi is pretty solid. Gotta follow the evidence.” He holds up the bag and gives her a nod of appreciation. “Thanks for this.” 

“Thank you for giving me a place to stay,” she replies. “Go solve your case.” 

“What are you going to do?” 

She tilts her chin toward the kitchen counter, where the stacks have migrated overnight. “I plan to follow the evidence.”

 

* * *

 

 

“I did it,” Alice Walker insists, her face a white mask. Tiny wrinkles at the edges of her pursed lips betray the stress she’s under. 

Marcus arches a doubtful eyebrow. “You left work to ‘take a call,’ went all the way home, stabbed your brother sixteen times in the elevator, and then went back to work like nothing had happened?” 

She swallows visibly, and Marcus watches as tears collect in the corners of her big blue eyes _._

“Yes,” she finally manages to whisper. “I did it.” 

“No she didn’t,” her lawyer argues, slamming a firm hand on the conference table. “Don’t listen to her!” 

Captain Gregson leans back in his chair. “I’ve gotta be honest with you, Miss Walker. I’m not sure why you requested a lawyer if your plan was to make a full confession and plead guilty to all charges.” 

She exchanges a pleading look with her attorney that Marcus finds incredibly suspicious. “He’s supposed to get me a deal,” she murmurs quietly. “Less time, or…” 

She lets the sentence die with a shrug of the shoulders. 

“We don’t need to strike a deal,” the attorney begins, dragging his gaze pointedly from Alice Walker to Marcus, “because she’s _not guilty._ She didn’t do this!” 

Alice Walker inhales shakily and lays a tentative hand on her attorney’s elbow. “Scott…” 

“No!” He jerks his arm away and turns to face her. “I’m not letting you take the fall for something you _didn’t do!_ ” When Scott the lawyer meets Marcus’s gaze again, his eyes have a wild, desperate sheen. 

_He’s a friend_ , Marcus thinks, stomach sinking. _Maybe a relative._ Still, he’s relatively sure that Scott the lawyer is onto something. 

“Where’d you take your daughter?” he asks, taking a seat at the table. The chair’s legs howl along the concrete floor. 

“I told you,” she replies quietly, tugging a thread from the fraying hole in her jeans. “Her father came and picked her up.” 

Marcus leans forward, putting both elbows on the table. “Before you stabbed your brother, or afterwards?” 

He watches as her jaw tenses. Another tear slips between her eyelids. Beneath the table, her fingers are shaking. 

“Why does it matter?” she all but whispers. “They have nothing to do with this. Like I said, I did it. I’m making a full confession.” 

“I still need you to answer the question,” Marcus persists unapologetically. “A full confession includes details of the crime. So…before or after?” 

Her petite frame deflates, sinking further into the chair. “After,” she concedes with a sideways glance at Scott. It sounds almost like a question. “It was…a crime of passion. I was…I _plead_ …temporary insanity.” 

Scott palms his forehead and presses his forefinger into his eye socket. “Alice…” 

“If that’s the case,” Marcus leans back, “then Mila’s father may be an accessory to George’s murder. We’ll need to bring him in for questioning immediately.” 

Gregson arches a skeptical eyebrow in Marcus’s peripheral vision, but Marcus maintains focus on Alice Walker so he can see the exact moment her eyes widen. He can almost see the throb of her rapid pulse shoving at the front of her wrinkled blouse. 

By the looks of it, Alice Walker hasn’t slept in days. 

“I…I spoke too soon,” she stutters. She turns her fearful countenance toward Scott, but he remains silent. “It was before. Before.” 

Marcus taps his pen casually against the edge of the table. “Then we’re still gonna have to bring Mr. Munger in, because he could be implicated as part of a conspiracy to commit a murder.” 

“But…that wasn’t the deal!” Alice Walker’s lip trembles. “I said I’d make a full confession if you left him alone!” 

“With all due respect, Miss Walker,” Captain Gregson interjects, leaning forward in his seat, “we never made that deal. Detective Bell is right; he may be Mila’s father, but if Axel Munger knew anything about this, he’s implicated in the crime—either for not reporting it before or for not reporting it after.” 

“But…I acted alone!” she insists, her voice climbing higher in pitch with every word. “I’ll tell you whatever you want to know! Just…leave him alone! Leave Mila alone!” She gasps, and her chest lurches in a violent staccato. “You _have_ to leave them alone!” She reaches again for her attorney’s elbow, this time with a white-knuckled grip. “Tell them, Scott! They have to…” 

“Then maybe you can answer some more questions for me,” Marcus interrupts loudly. 

“Anything,” Alice agrees emphatically. “Just…leave them alone. You _have_ to leave them alone.” 

“The knife you used to stab your brother,” Marcus begins, watching as Alice Walker’s right hand migrates protectively to her stomach. “The Swiss army knife, I mean. That’s an interesting choice. You want to talk to me about that?” 

“It…was…what I had,” she stammers. “I didn’t…” She pauses to shake her head, and the hand on her stomach creeps toward her side and grabs hold. “I didn’t plan it. I wasn’t thinking. I just…” 

She blinks, and Marcus watches her tears trace silver tracks down her cheeks as she glances at her attorney again. 

“You just…” Marcus prompts expectantly. 

Alice Walker swallows again, and her skin turns a curious shade of green. “I was…mad,” she continues haltingly. “I…pulled it out of my pocket and I, um…opened it, and…” 

She trails off, and Marcus folds his arms in exasperation. He’s beginning to hate this case. 

“According to the report filed by our medical examiner, George Walker was stabbed with a military grade, standard issue, serrated blade,” Marcus deadpans. “M.E. couldn’t be sure of the brand, but his best guess was a Gerber 06 Automatic.” 

Alice Walker’s pale features crumble. “Oh,” she all but whispers. “That’s not…” 

“A Swiss army knife,” Marcus finishes tersely. “No, it’s not.” 

Across the table, her attorney folds his arms petulantly across his broad, pinstriped chest. “I _told_ you she didn’t do it.” 

Marcus thinks of Ms. Hudson, sitting alone in his apartment in front of giant stacks of paper trying desperately to find their friends. He thinks of Sherlock and Joan, stuck God-knows-where, in a potentially life-threatening situation. 

Trying to extract the truth from Alice Walker might be his job, but it’s not high on his priority list. 

_Holmes probably would’ve solved this damn case by now._  

“Miss Walker,” Captain Gregson begins, “assuming responsibility for a crime you did not commit is against the law. You’re obstructing a murder investigation—and, if you know what _really_ happened to your brother, you’re also dangerously close to a charge for conspiracy to cover up.” 

“Not to mention the fact that you’re wasting the NYPD’s time,” Marcus snaps. “This isn’t our only case right now. People are missing, Miss Walker, and every second we spend in this room with you is a second we’re not spending trying to find them.” 

He can feel the captain’s eyes on him, wide and incredulous and anything but passive, but he holds Alice Walker’s gaze until she closes her eyes and drops her chin to her chest. 

Marcus is pretty sure that she mumbles something, but it’s not anything he understands. 

“Miss Walker,” Captain Gregson murmurs with a warning look in Marcus’s direction, “I’m going to need you to speak up.” 

She clears her throat. When she finally looks up, her face is wet and devoid of color. 

“He took Mila.” 

Marcus’s brow furrows in confusion. “Your brother?” 

“No,” Alice sniffles. “Axel. Axel took Mila.” She wipes her nose with the cuff of her sleeve. “He said he wouldn’t bring her back until you all were done asking questions about George.” 

“Miss Walker,” Gregson entreats, “do you think Axel Munger killed your brother?” 

She inhales. She exhales. She glances at Scott, who rolls his eyes. 

“For God’s sake, Alice,,” he groans, “it’s the fucking NYPD. Just tell the fucking truth.” 

She swallows, and Marcus watches the muscles in her neck ripple. “I…” Her hand absently fondles her abdomen. “I, um…” 

The tears begin again, and Marcus is fairly certain that Alice Walker is pregnant with Axel Munger’s second child. He’s about to say as much when his cell phone buzzes loudly against his hip. 

With an exasperated sigh, he leans to the left and tugs the mobile from his right pocket. He doesn’t recognize the number, but the message makes his blood run cold.

 

 

**URGENT NEED HELP ASAP SEND TEAM –JW**

 

 

When he glances up, he sees Captain Gregson scanning the same message. 

“Captain,” he begins fearfully. Adrenaline is already setting his limbs on fire. 

Gregson meets his gaze with grim authority. “Go,” he orders. 

Marcus is out of his seat like a shot, all thoughts of Alice Walker forgotten. 

“I need a trace on a number ASAP!” he yells to the bullpen as the door slams shut behind him.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. A Gerber 06 Automatic is a real knife and is apparently good for stabbing. The NSA is either really impressed with my research or significantly concerned for my sanity.
> 
> 2\. You may have noticed that Day 5 has been divided into two parts. It's a long day for everyone involved.
> 
> 3\. Thanks for going on this ride with me. Really. Your comments, kudos, and kind words are making my month. I'm sending all that love right back at you.
> 
> Happy Elementary day!


	7. Day 5, Part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It takes hours for the Search and Rescue team to follow the footsteps and trace their scents in the snow. 
> 
> It feels like years.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this is late! I'm so sorry; it kept getting longer. As always--and ESPECIALLY now--thanks so much for the love you've shown this story. I appreciate it more than words can say.

**DAY 5**

**(Part II)**

 

While his colleagues in Major Cases are scrambling to trace the unknown number, Marcus types out a reply.

 

**ON MY WAY. DO YOU NEED A BUS?**

He gets no response. 

He grabs his jacket from the back of his chair and snags his keys from his long, skinny desk drawer. Then, he apprehensively taps his finger on the location pin attached to the message. Dread plummets like a lead ball to the depths of his gut when his map application loads. 

Not only is Joan hours away, but she’s nowhere within the department’s jurisdiction. He’s going to have to call the local PD on his way. With any luck, they’ll make it to Joan before he does. 

He scrawls the address on a Post-It and heads for the parking lot as another thought occurs to him.

 

**ARE YOU OK? IS SHERLOCK WITH YOU?**

The little bubble bearing his question sits, unanswered, at the bottom of the conversation. There is no electronic indication that either message has even gone through. 

Marcus unlocks the driver’s side door, slides behind the wheel, and presses the green circle on his screen that initiates a phone call. 

He hears three electronic beeps of escalating pitch. “The number you have dialed is no longer in service.” 

He swallows forcefully, raining saliva on the forest of dread in his abdomen, and starts the engine.

 

 

* * *

 

  

He’s veering onto Henry Hudson Parkway when the first call comes in. 

“Bell,” he barks into the phone, honking angrily at the asshole in front of him who’s changing lanes without a turn signal. For just a brief moment, he wishes he worked patrol again. _I would ticket that motherfucker so fast…_

“Detective? This is Gerry West, sir. I ran your trace.” 

Gerald West is a young, blonde, blue-eyed cadet fresh out of the Academy. Sherlock refers to the kid as “Not Bell,” but Marcus is pretty sure the kid has promise as a detective once he manages to jump through the bureaucratic hoops involved. “And?” 

The cadet takes a preparatory breath. “Number’s registered to a Richard James Slovenik in Poughkeepsie.” 

“Thanks, West,” Marcus mutters as he merges with the far left lane. “Any priors?” 

“I didn’t check,” West admits. “Do you want me to run a search?” 

“That’d be great,” Marcus muses gratefully. “Normally, I’d do it myself, but…” 

“It’s no problem, Detective. The captain said to give you whatever you need within reason.” West clears his throat awkwardly. “He said, uh, Holmes and Watson might be in trouble.” 

Fear and grief form a large, terrified lump beneath Marcus’s larynx. “Yeah,” he manages to croak. “I’m trying to bring ‘em home.” He squints into the bright winter sky and forces himself to focus. _No time to get mushy, Marcus._ “Where’s the phone now? Can you ping a location? I can’t get a response, and when I called, I got some message that the number was disconnected.” 

“I can’t tell you where the phone is now,” West begins regretfully, “because someone turned it off and we don’t have a warrant. I can give you the owner’s mailing address, though.” 

“I’ll take whatever you’ve got,” Marcus agrees. “Could you text it to me?” 

“You got it.” There’s a brief pause before Marcus’s phone buzzes insistently against his ear. “Sent. And Detective?” 

“West?” 

“No priors. Guy’s got a pretty decent record as far as I can see. Just two speeding tickets in the last ten years; one in Poughkeepsie and one in Brooklyn.” 

“Thanks, West.” 

“No problem, sir. Keep us posted.” 

 _Maybe they’re fine_ , Marcus thinks as he disconnects the call. _Maybe the phone died and they can’t find a charger. Maybe they’re hanging out with this Slovenik guy and telling wild stories about old cases while they wait for my help with whatever mid-vacation investigation they’re conducting._

_Maybe they need a team because, in the midst of this self-imposed sabbatical, Sherlock found a freaking serial killer._

None of his rationalizations seem to slow his rapid heart rate, though, so he dials Ms. Hudson’s number. 

“Does Joan ever leave you notes?” he asks upon concluding the usual pleasantries. 

“She’s been known to leave Post-Its on occasion,” Ms. Hudson admits, “but most of the notes to me are from Sherlock, indicating experiments I should or shouldn’t touch. Why do you ask?” 

“How does she sign them?” 

“With her initials, JW,” Ms. Hudson answers suspiciously. “Detective, what’s going on?” 

He tells her about the text message he received and relays what little he knows about Richard James Slovenik. 

“No prior arrests,” he concludes shortly, “so that’s positive.” 

“It might be irrelevant,” Ms. Hudson points out. “I’m no expert on criminal behavior—unless it occurred in the plays of Sophocles or Euripides, of course. Aristophanes was much more likely to lampoon than to start any meaningful dialogue on what it meant to go against one’s government—unless you consider _Lysistrata_ a commentary on the place of violence in society, which would actually be quite an interesting way to examine the text…” 

“ _But_ ,” Marcus prompts pointedly. In moments like these, he has no problem seeing how Ms. Hudson might find common ground with the great Sherlock Holmes. 

“But the phone could’ve been stolen,” Ms. Hudson concludes softly. “Not just by Joan, but by Sherlock—or, more importantly, by their captors. Richard James Slovenik could just be some poor gentleman walking the streets of…” 

“Millbrook,” Marcus supplies with a grimace. “According to the pin she sent, they’re right smack in the middle of the woods in Millbrook.” 

Ms. Hudson inhales sharply, sending a hiss of static across the line. “How far away is that?” 

“At least two hours,” Marcus admits, glancing at his GPS, “and that’s without traffic.” 

“Which is a nonexistent circumstance in New York City,” Ms. Hudson finishes ruefully, “and we have no way of knowing if they’re _still_ there.” 

“The fact that the phone’s off makes me nervous,” Marcus admits, “but the guy doesn’t have any prior arrests, and technology’s not exactly what I’d call reliable—especially in the woods.” 

“The fact that this Richard character hasn’t been arrested before doesn’t mean he’s not a criminal,” Ms. Hudson argues. “If there’s anything I’ve learned working with Sherlock and Joan, it’s that the most devious of beings are the hardest to catch.” 

“I just wish we could track that damn phone,” Marcus grumbles. “If we knew where they were, or where they’re going—or if Joan would respond to a _single one_ of my text messages…”

Ms. Hudson voices his worst fears in a low, remorseful alto. “It might not be Joan on the other end of that phone.” 

Marcus inhales sharply and grips the wheel until his knuckles turn seashell pink. He tries to focus on Captain Gregson’s gruff words of wisdom. 

_“Something is always better than nothing.”_

He chants it silently to the throbbing rush of blood past his ears. 

“Why can’t we track the phone?” Ms. Hudson muses. “Even if it’s off, the mere existence of a battery or a SIM card should indicate an opportunity to receive a signal.” 

“We don’t have a warrant to access the same kind of technology that the NSA uses to spy on people,” Marcus laments. He forces a hollow laugh. “I mean, if you know a guy…” 

“Actually, I might,” Ms. Hudson murmurs thoughtfully after a moment of silence. “If you don’t mind me involving one of Sherlock’s Irregulars, I can make a call.” 

The wrinkles of concern that form on his brow are a reflex. “Is this gonna get me in trouble?” 

“Oh, no,” Ms. Hudson assures him jovially. “Mason may be in high school, but he’s very discreet. I just have to make sure he’s not grounded.” 

Before he can ask any questions about Mason’s qualifications, the line goes dead. 

 _Yeah,_ he thinks as he pulls past a lane closure and accelerates desperately, _I can definitely see how she gets along with Holmes._

  

 

* * *

 

  

Ms. Hudson calls back fifteen minutes later to tell him that Mason—who, mercifully, is not grounded—is planning to meet her at the brownstone as quickly as possible.

“If you call my leasing office,” Marcus offers, “someone can come up and lock my door.” 

He’s only a tiny bit surprised when she confesses that she had a copy of his key made the night before while he was passed out on the couch. 

“I hope you’re not mad,” she concludes apologetically. 

 _It’s a little late for that now_ , Marcus wants to say. What he says instead is, “Call me when Mason finds something.” 

“Of course,” she agrees. 

He pulls over to recite Richard James Slovenik’s mobile number. She takes it down with polite efficiency and hangs up with the promise that Mason will work effectively and expeditiously.

 

  

* * *

 

 

He spends thirty miles of Interstate 87 arguing with the Millbrook Police Department. Despite his best efforts, they refuse to send a team forward. 

“At this point, Detective, you don’t have anything more concrete than a location from a random cell phone. All due respect, I’m not putting my team at risk just because you have a ‘gut feeling’ that it all means something significant.” 

“Not even for two of our own?” Marcus volleys expectantly. 

“They’re consultants,” Millbrook’s captain deadpans, “not cops.” 

“They were commended by the city right along with the rest of the department,” Marcus snaps. 

“Bring me more concrete evidence, and I’ll send a team in,” the captain reiterates firmly. “Until then, you and your _hunch_ are on your own.” 

 

 

* * *

 

 

_They could be fine. Sherlock’s good with hand-to-hand combat, and Joan runs every day. Maybe they escaped and the battery died._

Marcus kneads the leather of the steering wheel with anxious hands. 

_They could actually be on some sort of strange, case-related vacation. Maybe they’re just really deep undercover, and Richard James Slovenik is some name Sherlock made up for whatever character he’s supposed to be during this particular operation._

He’s heard Sherlock Holmes spout an impressive array of accents over their time together. He wouldn’t be surprised if the man had been hired for his impersonation skills alone.

_They could be struggling, but still alive. Maybe they’re being tortured for information on an old case. Maybe they’ve been working the Allen Paul and Christina Jacks case, and the abductor finally nabbed them to stop the progress._

He’s seen the box of cold cases in Joan’s office. He knows that Joan digs through the box when they’re in between cases at the NYPD. He wouldn’t be surprised if the disappearance of the couple from Poughkeepsie had made it into Sherlock’s personal collection of unsolved mysteries. He could definitely see why the story might entice Joan.

 _They could be dead._  

Marcus signals for a lane change and accelerates as bile climbs up his esophagus. 

When the phone rings, he’s so startled that his head nearly hits the ceiling. 

“Bell,” he answers, inhaling deeply to calm his racing pulse. 

“It’s Gregson,” comes the captain’s gruff reply. “I just wanted to let you know that we obtained a copy of Alice Walker’s phone records. That call she took the night her brother was shot? It came from a cell phone registered to Axel Munger.” 

“Shit,” Marcus swears. “You think she and Axel were conspiring?” 

“I’ve got a guy reviewing security footage from the shops around the apartment building, a guy heading back to the bar to interview Alice Walker’s coworkers about that phone call, and a team looking for Axel Munger and the little girl.” 

“Mila,” Marcus supplies with a sinking feeling. “So we’re treating this as a kidnapping.” 

“Phone records show multiple calls to George after the initial call from Axel,” Captain Gregson recounts, “so, yeah. Whether they conspired to commit murder or not, Alice Walker did admit that she hasn’t seen her daughter since her brother was killed. To me, that says kidnapping.” 

Marcus slams on his brakes as traffic comes to a halt and acquiesces. 

“Interesting development regarding your interview with the neighbors, though,” Gregson adds thoughtfully. “Turns out that before Alice Walker lived in that apartment with George, she lived there with Axel. The split was recent and in no way amicable.” 

Marcus’s eyebrows climb in recognition. “So the guy with whom she was fighting…” 

“Could’ve very well been Axel Munger, yeah,” Gregson finishes. “Miss Walker confirms that the relationship was abusive.” 

“She’s a murder suspect,” Marcus gripes. “She’d say anything. Hell, she _has_ said anything to swing the findings in this case in whatever way she thinks might benefit her.” 

“She says she was confessing to murder solely to stop the investigation so Axel would bring Mila back,” Gregson points out. 

“I don’t think she committed the murder,” Marcus argues, “but I’m also not convinced she’s innocent.” 

“Fair enough,” the captain agrees. “How’s it going on your end? Any word from Sherlock or Joan?” 

“No word,” Marcus admits ruefully, “and I’m still at least an hour from Millbrook. Traffic’s a pain in the ass.” 

“Did you call Millbrook PD?” 

“They won’t help without more proof,” Marcus sighs. 

“Can’t say I’m surprised,” Gregson admits. “I’ll put a call in and see what I can do. Keep me posted.” 

Marcus agrees. 

 

* * *

 

  

A wreck on I-87 stalls his progress significantly, and he still hasn’t heard from Ms. Hudson or Mason or anyone else who might be able to help, and suddenly, Marcus hates everyone—which explains why, when his phone finally does ring, he’s less than charitable in his salutation. 

“Bell,” he barks angrily into the receiver. 

“Detective Marcus Bell?” answers a menacing baritone. “With the NYPD’s Major Cases unit?” 

“This is he,” Marcus hedges suspiciously. 

“Morland Holmes,” comes the terse, grave reply. “I’ve been told you have some concerns regarding the whereabouts of my son.” 

“I honestly didn’t think your secretary was going to pass along the message,” Marcus finds himself admitting. 

“Yes, well,” Morland murmurs dismissively, “she’s paid quite handsomely to ensure that I don’t have to waste my time on frivolous calls. What do you know about my son?” 

Not being much for any sort of frivolity, Marcus decides to cut straight to the chase. “Sherlock and Joan have been missing for the last five days.” 

The older man’s silence indicates his surprise. “Define ‘missing’,” he instructs finally. 

Marcus knows that the calm, measured tone is deceptive. “They aren’t responding to phone calls or texts,” he replies, merging slowly into the far left lane, “and they haven’t been home.” 

“They could be working a case,” the patriarch suggests. “It’s possible that they’ve gone undercover.” 

“They would’ve notified the captain,” Marcus argues. “And they definitely would’ve made arrangements for someone to take care of that damn turtle of theirs.” 

“I was told they’ve made arrangements for a housekeeper,” Morland counters. “Perhaps the housekeeper agreed to provide sufficient care for the turtle.” 

“I’ll certainly ask her,” Marcus mutters dryly. “Listen…” 

“You are aware of my son’s history of questionable habits,” the elder Holmes interrupts. “Has the department pursued that line of thinking?” 

Marcus is offended on Sherlock’s behalf. “No,” he replies darkly. “Sherlock’s been clean for two years.” 

“Twenty months is hardly a lifetime sobriety achievement,” Morland volleys. “His last relapse happened at the conclusion of three years’ sobriety. Forgive me if I sound dismissive of his accomplishment, but I hope you can understand my lingering skepticism.” 

“His partner is his former sober companion,” Marcus bites back. “You honestly think she’d join him on a heroin binge?” 

A long silence follows, which Marcus perceives as Sherlock’s father’s admission of defeat. 

“ _Anyway_ ,” he segues pointedly, “I figured you might want to know that they’re missing. I understand you have additional means at your disposal, so I wasn’t sure if you’d heard from them.” 

“I have not,” Morland admits quietly. 

“Any chance you have additional information that might help the investigation into their disappearance?” Marcus presses. “I’m chasing down a lead now, but time is of the essence, and the NYPD will take all the help we can get when it comes to tracking down two of our own.” 

The senior Holmes is silent for so long that Marcus begins to wonder if he’s lost the connection. 

“You’re certain they’ve been abducted.” 

“Pretty damn sure,” Marcus responds gravely. “We found a note that matches a note left at the site of a similar disappearance.” 

“Allow me to make some calls, then,” Mr. Holmes murmurs. “I’ll be in touch, Detective Bell.” 

The line goes dead. 

 _Man, no wonder Holmes is weird. Imagine growing up with_ that. 

Marcus rolls his eyes and, against all of his more professional instincts, turns on the siren and forges ahead.

 

* * *

 

 

“He’s had the phone for six years, so he _basically_ lives in the Stone Age. No cloud account. He hasn’t taken steps to bundle the phone with cable or internet. It’s basically a stand-alone account with an unlimited data plan. From what I can tell, the phone has spent the last week in roughly the same location: the Slo-N-Smooth dairy farm in Millbrook. That’s where your pin lands, by the way—and where the phone last broadcast a signal. Right smack in the middle of a dairy farm. Dude must love cows, which would explain why he doesn’t feel the need to join the rest of humanity in the technological utopia that is the twenty-first century.” 

Marcus blinks incredulously into his windshield as he struggles to see between the huge flakes of snow that keep obscuring his visual field. “Weren’t you born _after_ the year 2000?” 

“Well, yeah,” Mason snorts across the line. “I’m not a _dinosaur._ ” 

“Mind your manners, Mason,” Ms. Hudson chides in the background. “There are numerous millennia between the Mesozoic era and the days when boy bands roamed the earth.” 

“One Direction had hits two years ago,” Mason retorts, “none of which this guy would’ve been able to purchase from his phone. As far as I can see, he doesn’t have a single linked credit card.” 

“Talk to me about One Direction after you’ve seen the Backstreet Boys nail a dance sequence,” Marcus quips. 

Ms. Hudson’s sigh is audible. “I do love the Backstreet Boys. That Nick Carter…” 

“ _About this guy_ ,” Mason forges ahead pointedly. “I can’t turn on the phone remotely without a SIM card or a cloud account present, but I can tell you that the phone hasn’t moved for the last week. From the data I can compile, someone’s been using the Slo-N-Smooth Wi-Fi. I can try to determine what they’ve been using it _for_ , but that’s going to take more time.” 

Marcus feels as confused as he felt in his advanced physics class during his senior year of high school, when a beautiful genius by the name of Tanesha Flores sat in front of him and siphoned his attention from the board of equations. “So…you think that the SIM card was removed intentionally?” 

“Absolutely,” Mason concludes. “Have you seen how difficult those things are to remove? It’s highly probable that whoever removed the SIM card and powered the phone off has insight into the criminal mind—or at least the search capabilities of the NSA and most hackers.” 

“That could be Sherlock and Joan,” Marcus argues. 

“True,” Mason concedes. “It’s possible that Mr. Holmes and Joan came to the dairy farm seeking asylum and stole the phone, then turned it off to avoid being tracked by whoever was on their tail.” 

“But?” Marcus prompts expectantly. 

“But if I were a betting man…” 

“Which you aren’t,” Marcus interjects through gritted teeth, “because you’re _underage._ ” 

“I’d say that the perp caught them and removed the SIM card to avoid being detected.” Mason pauses for a moment. “If you’d give me permission, I can hack into your phone and see if I can get the IP address from which the message was sent. That might help us learn more.” 

“You do good work, kid,” Marcus admits grudgingly, “but there are _no_ circumstances under which I want you rooting around in my cell data.” 

“What are you afraid I’ll find?” Mason prods. “Porn? I’m in high school. You think I haven’t seen porn before? Don’t you work with the NSA? You think they aren’t listening in on this conversation _right now_?” 

“I work with the NSA under protest,” Marcus grumbles. “I believe people have a right to their privacy.” 

“Even in matters of life and death?” Mason inhales. “Wait. The text went to Captain Gregson too, right? I could hack _his_ phone!” 

Marcus’s eyes widen as his headlights struggle to cut through the growing blizzard. “I am _NOT_ authorizing that.” 

“Fine,” Mason sighs petulantly. “I _guess_ I’ll continue sorting through all this browsing history.” 

“I do appreciate the work,” Marcus offers gently. “Your bosses are good friends of mine, and it’s important to me that we find them alive.” 

“They’re not my bosses,” Mason points out. “I’m a consultant.” 

Marcus thinks back to his conversation with the captain of the Millbrook Police Department and shakes his head thoughtfully. “That means more than you think it does. Trust me.” 

For once, Mason doesn’t seem to have a witty retort. 

“Anyway, I just pulled up to Slo-N-Smooth Farms,” Marcus murmurs, cutting the engine with no small amount of relief. “I’ll let you know what I find out.” 

“Please find them,” Ms. Hudson murmurs just before he disconnects the call.

 

* * *

 

  

“Howdy! Welcome to Slo-N-Smooth Farms! You got here just in the nick o’ time, y’know? We’re fixin’ to close for the day!” 

Marcus glances around the tacky country décor. The white walls have matte black spots on them in a cheap imitation of cowprint. Right behind the register, a stretched, mounted bandana proclaims, “Slo-N-Smooth-N-Ready-4-You!” 

The white of the text matches the white of the cashier’s smile. She gives a cheerful wave, and her braided pigtails swing ever so slightly back and forth. Above her left breast, there’s a rectangular plastic nametag that reads MINDY in large, block capitals and OKLAHOMA in smaller print beneath. 

Marcus returns the smile tightly and closes the distance between the door and the register. “I’m hoping you can help me out,” he begins with as much goodwill as he can muster. “I’m looking for a couple of people. The first is a Richard James Slovenik. Is he here?”

“You just missed him!” she relays with a cartoonish pout, drawing out the word “just” in a saccharine, sing-song fashion. “Mr. Slo had to head out a bit early today. Said he wanted to get ahead o’ the blizzard. I’m sure you know, but that snow out there ain’t slowin’ down for nobody!” 

“Ain’t that the truth,” Marcus laments. “Do you know where he might’ve gone?” 

“Prob’ly went straight home,” she admits, pursing her lips thoughtfully. “He’s gettin’ up there in years, y’know? These roads are hard enough to see without glasses! Granted, I’m not from here, but even these young eyes have a tough time in a flurry like this!” 

Marcus nods curtly. “And where is ‘home’ for Mr. Slovenik?” 

Mindy’s eyebrows reach for each other over the bridge of her button nose. “You got a lot o’ personal questions, doncha? Mind if I ask yer name?” 

Marcus reaches into his pocket and produces his badge. “Detective Marcus Bell with the NYPD,” he replies, getting the slightest bit of satisfaction from the way her eyes widen appreciatively. “We’re working a missing persons case right now.” 

“Oh, no,” Mindy murmurs gravely. “Is Mr. Slo missing?” 

Marcus trades his badge for his cell phone, which he uses to summon a picture of Sherlock and Joan. “I’m actually wondering if you might’ve seen these folks.” 

Her porcelain features light up immediately. “Oh, yeah! They were in here just awhile ago lookin’ for some coats they left behind! Look a right mite nicer in this picture than they did when I saw ‘em, though,” she admits with a chuckle. “Said they signed up for the feeding experience and got a bit more than they bargained for, if y’know what I mean!” She winks at him. “Dust all over those nice city clothes, and I’m pretty sure that nice British man left without a shirt.” 

Relief crests over Marcus like a wave—suddenly, his limbs feel numb and his hands are shaking. “You’re sure?” he manages to ask, pushing the cell phone forward again. “These are the people you saw?” 

Mindy nods. “Sweet Oriental woman and a Brit, right? Came back for coats they’d left a few days ago. Real nice coats, too,” she remarks. “Seemed like that lady wore the pants in that relationship, though, if you don’t mind me sayin’ so.” 

Marcus has to fight the downright maniacal laugh that threatens to spill forth. “Yeah, that’s them. They left?” 

“Walked right out the front door on their own four feet!” she assures him with a grin. Almost as quickly as it comes, the grin begins to fade. “Wait. They ain’t criminals or nothin’, right?” Her eyelids spread until the whites around her irises are showing. “You think we were robbed or somethin’?!” 

“No,” Marcus assures her. “Quite the opposite, actually; they work with me at the NYPD.” 

She exhales with a _whoosh_. “Well, _that_ there’s certainly a relief, I gotta tell you. I’d hate to tell Mrs. Slo that someone robbed the place on my watch and then walked right out the front door like nothin’ happened.” 

“Did you see which way they went?” Marcus prods. Now that he knows his colleagues are alive, adrenaline is flooding his system with fire. He bounces on his toes and looks anxiously toward the door. 

“Straight out, far as I could see,” Mindy replies apologetically. “Figured they were parked in the visitors’ lot, right where you came from.” 

“Great,” Marcus enthuses. “Thanks. You’ve been very helpful.” 

He’s halfway out the door when the words of Millbrook PD’s captain echo loudly in the forefront of his memory.  

 _“Bring me more concrete evidence, and I’ll send a team in.”_  

Marcus’s gaze traces a straight line from a very obvious lens in the corner to Mindy’s eager countenance. 

“Mindy,” he begins with what he hopes is a charming smile. “Is that a security camera I see?” 

“Yes, sir!” she replies cheerfully. “Top o’ the line!” 

“You wouldn’t happen to have my colleagues on video, would you?”

 

* * *

 

 

He leaves the dairy farm with a printout of a screen shot from the Slo-N-Smooth entryway’s security footage in which Sherlock and Joan—looking admittedly worse for the wear—can be clearly seen. 

He uses a flashlight to scour the snow in front of him as he steps out into the elements. Despite the rate at which the snow is coming down, he can make out a muted pair of footprints heading toward the highway. 

His heart pounds a rapid staccato against his ribcage as he dials the number for the Millbrook PD. He continues to navigate the trail of footsteps as he asks to speak to the captain. 

“Sir? Detective Marcus Bell of the NYPD’s Major Cases unit, 11th Precinct.” He tries to rid his tone of the grudge he still feels. “We spoke earlier about my missing colleagues.” 

“I remember,” the captain murmurs, his voice bearing the telltale marks of a long day. 

“I found that concrete proof you wanted,” Marcus deadpans. “They left Slo-N-Smooth Farms injured and on foot almost five hours ago. I’m gonna need a search team and at least one EMT. If you need to verify the request,” he adds as an afterthought, “I’m happy to pass you to Captain Thomas Gregson.” 

“That won’t be necessary, Detective Bell,” the captain assures him. “I’ve already got your badge number. Let’s bring your consultants home.”

* * *

 

 

It takes hours for the Search and Rescue team to follow the footsteps and trace their scents in the snow. 

It feels like years. 

Then, Marcus sees the worn front door to the barn, watches as the giant German Shepherd K9 struggles to nose the intimidating padlock out of the way, and he just _knows._

 _Dead or alive, Sherlock and Joan are inside._  

He stands anxiously by as the Millbrook PD uses brute force to attempt to remove the padlock, knowing all the while that Sherlock would’ve nimbly picked it open. 

(He suspects Joan has similar skills, but he’s never seen proof of them, and she refuses to confirm any activity that might be construed as illegal.) 

As the fight with the padlock escalates, Marcus wonders if Sherlock would ever teach him how to pick a lock. After all, his abnormally intense exam review proved Sherlock to be a disturbingly adept teacher. 

When the door finally opens, banging hard and fast against the wooden wall of the barn, Marcus is the first person through the entryway. He’s halfway through the stalls on the right side when he hears the urgent shout of the K9 handler. 

“Detective Bell! I think we’ve got something!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies again for the tardiness--and for the change in chapter count. There is one last chapter after this, but you'll see an update to "Stolen" before that. ("Stolen" is the prequel of sorts to this snapshot in which you follow Joan and Sherlock's journey. Want to know where our favorite dynamic duo has been? Read "Stolen" [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12335763/chapters/28052046).) 
> 
> A LOT of research went into this chapter, because I'm a perfectionist and a nerd, and those form a lethal combination:
> 
> 1\. There is no 11th precinct in New York City. For the purposes of Marcus's drive to Millbrook, I used the address of the city's 10th precinct. I verified the drive by Google satellite. ;)
> 
> 2\. There really is a building that appears to be an abandoned barn off Highway 44 in the rural area of Millbrook, NY. The Slo-N-Smooth Dairy Farm does not exist, but Millbrook is home to other upstate New York dairy farms, one of which was used as the address for Slo-N-Smooth Farms. I'm (fairly) sure the actual farm is in no way home to a kidnapping operation. 
> 
> 3\. All of the facts Mason (YAY MASON!) relays about a SIM card and the search for a powered-down cell phone appear to be true. According to some research into the electronic capabilities afforded by most police departments, one CAN track a cell phone that's been turned off by signaling the battery remotely. Without a SIM card, that becomes infinitely more difficult. I don't know exactly of what the NSA is capable, but retired cops on Quora seem to suggest that a) most departments don't have time, resources, or budget to track powered-down phones and b) there is significant disagreement as to what the base standard of capability is for a police department. In other news, my internet browsing history is getting sketchier by the day. 
> 
> 4\. The Millbrook Police Department is real and intimate. I'm sure that, in real life, their captain is a very nice person.
> 
> 5\. I promise that you will find out what happens to Alice Walker, Mila Grace, and Axel Munger. The case will be closed!
> 
>  
> 
> Just in case I don't say it enough, THANK YOU for your beautiful, kind comments and encouragement. Thanks also for clicking the "kudos" button! It really does mean the world.


	8. Day 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock inhales slowly, blinking owlishly into the beam of Marcus’s flashlight. “Nice of you to show up,” he retorts finally, his syllables uncharacteristically slow and slurred. “Took you long enough.”

**DAY 6**

 

The K9 whines, pawing at an old saddle blanket that is threadbare in places and entirely covered in horse hair. The edge farthest from the wall seems to obscure the familiar black wool of Joan’s favorite coat, but Marcus can’t tell if that’s just wishful thinking on his part. 

The lump in the center of the makeshift bed hardly seems large enough for two people, and it remains immobile, but Marcus still hopes. 

“Sherlock?” he calls tentatively. “Joan?” 

Long, thin fingers creep from beneath the blanket’s hem to scratch the K9’s muzzle. Moments later, a woman’s winter chapeau with a very prominent woolen bow escapes the tangle of hay closest to the wall, and Sherlock’s gaunt, bearded face emerges. Something shifts beneath the blankets, and Joan’s familiar almond-shaped eyes peer up at him. 

_Oh, thank God_ , Marcus wants to say. _You’re both alive. I was so fucking worried._

What he says instead is, “Nice hat.” 

With awkward, jerky movements, Sherlock reaches up to his head, wrinkles creasing his dirty forehead. Beside him, Joan’s eyes and cheekbones are razor-sharp. 

Grief squeezes Marcus’s ribs together. _They look awful._  

Sherlock inhales slowly, blinking owlishly into the beam of Marcus’s flashlight. “Nice of you to show up,” he retorts finally, his syllables uncharacteristically slow and slurred. “Took you long enough.” 

The mountain range of limbs is evidence enough that, beneath the blankets, every inch of them is touching. Marcus can’t decide whether or not he’s surprised. 

“What he means,” Joan offers in a low, sleep-thick voice, “is ‘thank you.’” 

Marcus acknowledges her gratitude with a nod. The lump in his throat prevents him from uttering anything profound. 

“Alex Webber, EMT,” offers one of the medical professionals. “I’m just gonna look you two over and make sure you’re okay. It’s really cold out here.” 

Joan leans back against the hay with a grimace. “I don’t need…” 

“Yes,” Sherlock interrupts firmly with all the audacity to which Marcus is accustomed, “you do.” 

“Oh yeah?” Joan looks appropriately affronted. “Which one of us took an eight-foot tumble down a dark hole?” she retorts. 

Marcus wants to scream. He wants to hug them. He wants to take them straight to the nearest hospital for the evaluations they _clearly_ need. 

Instead, he shoves his hands in his pockets and tries, desperately, to breathe.

 

 

* * *

 

 

From the outside, they look a bit like the brownstone they inhabit: worn, dirty, and chaotic, but functional. Marcus wouldn’t go so far as to say that either of them looks _good_ , exactly, but they look okay. 

He’s surprised when Sherlock faints. 

He’s profoundly _shocked_ when Joan lands a powerful right hook to the solar plexus of the EMT who tries to insert Sherlock’s central line. 

He’s still reeling when he pockets the Smith & Wesson cuffs from which Joan somehow slipped and dials Captain Gregson’s number. 

The captain answers almost immediately. “Gregson.” 

“It’s Marcus,” he replies gravely. “Listen, sir, I’m sorry to wake you and Paige, but…” 

“You didn’t wake me,” the captain interrupts gruffly. “I was actually just about to call you.” He inhales sharply, and static pierces the line. “We found the girl.” 

“Oh.” In his haste to get to Sherlock and Joan, Marcus had forgotten almost entirely about Alice Walker and her missing daughter. His eyebrows scale his forehead, and he rubs his chin with a tired hand. “Is she okay?” 

“She’s alive,” Gregson replies with a monumental sigh. “Turns out Axel Munger used to be a Crossfit coach. When he found out we were looking for him, he took his daughter to his old place of employment—one of the lesser-known gyms on the outskirts of Brooklyn.” 

It’s difficult for Marcus to rid his tone of bitterness when he replies. “Was that Alice Walker’s tip?” 

Gregson chortles. “Her attorney Scott Fineman’s, actually. Alice Walker wasn’t too keen on cooperating, but once it became clear that Axel Munger was probably George Walker’s killer, the attorney started talking. Apparently, he used to be George Walker’s partner. Even after the breakup, the two stayed friends, so Scott took George’s death pretty hard.” The captain snorts derisively. “You missed the fireworks. He dropped Alice as a client right after you left.” 

Marcus shook his head incredulously. “Can’t say I’m surprised. Where’s Munger now?” 

“On his way to the hospital,” the captain admits. “After the shit show in the conference room, we put Alice Walker back in a holding cell, and we let Scott Fineman go. Turns out, he went straight to the Crossfit gym to confront Axel Munger. By the time our team got there, Axel had gone at Scott with the knife a few times. Scott eventually shot him in self-defense.” 

Marcus winces. “Is Fineman still alive?” 

“He’s also on his way to Brookdale. He’s got a pretty big gash in his side that probably needs surgery.” 

Marcus takes a few steps forward until he can see the gleam of the IV pole and the tangled waterfall of Joan’s dusty black hair. “Did the kid get hurt during any of this?” 

“No,” Gregson assures him with no small amount of relief. “I mean, she needs a bath, but she seems okay, physically. Mentally…” He trails off and inhales sharply. “Apparently, she was in the elevator when her uncle was stabbed to death, and it’s pretty likely that she saw her father get shot tonight. We’ve got a social worker with her now, but…my guess? She may look okay, but she’s got a long road ahead of her.” 

Marcus closes his eyes for just a moment, long enough to envision a scared little girl pressing herself into the corner of a familiar elevator while two of the men she loves most in the world attempt to destroy each other. His teeth grip his lower lip until the copper tang of blood fills his mouth. 

“How’re things on your end?” the captain asks finally, his voice hushed and tentative. “Did you find Sherlock and Joan?” 

“We found ‘em,” Marcus all but whispers. “It’s a long story, and I don’t have all the details yet, but it seems like they were being held captive either in or around the Slo-N-Smooth Dairy Farm in Millbrook. They escaped this afternoon and wound up in an abandoned barn off of Route 44.” 

The captain lets out a low whistle. “Shit.” 

“Yeah,” Marcus agrees. “I’m here now with two EMTs and the Search and Rescue team from Millbrook PD.” 

Marcus can hear shuffling on the other end. When the captain speaks again, his voice is rough and ragged. 

“This is gonna seem like a stupid question, but are they okay?” 

“They’re alive,” Marcus echoes hesitantly. “It seems like they went without food or water for a pretty significant period of time, but…” 

He watches as Joan leans forward and presses her forehead to Sherlock’s, watches as she threads her long, thin fingers through Sherlock’s callused, bloody digits. To an untrained observer, it looks like a sweet moment between lovers, but Marcus sees the desperation and fear in the tense curve of Joan’s back and the white of her knuckles. 

They may look okay, but Sherlock and Joan are clearly _not okay._

He thinks of Mila Grace, pressed into the walls of the elevator while her father stabs her uncle and her mother pours drinks for people who need to forget the day. He thinks of Mila Grace, pressed between the metal bars of an exercise machine and trying desperately to make herself invisible while her father jabs her uncle’s former lover with a knife. He thinks of Mila Grace, eyes wide as a gunshot echoes along the stark concrete walls of a Crossfit gym in Brooklyn. 

Marcus inhales sharply. _People survive terrible things every day. Children survive terrible things every day. Sherlock and Joan are adults. We will catch the asshole who did this to them, and they will be fine._  

As he moves back toward his battered friends, he traces the rhythm of the words like a mantra. 

_They will be fine._

If he thinks it enough, says it enough, perhaps, eventually, it will be true.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This concludes "In Absentia." Thank you SO much to every single one of you who has taken the time to read, comment, send kudos, or encourage the completion of this story in any way.
> 
> You can see this chapter from our favorite detective duo's point of view in [Stolen](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12335763/chapters/28052046), which is also seeing an update today. You can ALSO find out where everyone goes from here by following that story.
> 
> Thank you, thank you, thank you. <3


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